The Cento: A Collection of Collage Poems

A Cento of Houses

209 JeAnne sTAuffer-merle A Cento of Houses 1 Lip up over the steps all night Invading the distance between soil and words the little walls break up and bleed then absence, the open room a step scattered with straw and the wheelbarrow jammed but empty— indifferent noons leading to the ripple of a question: And is it as I have become? I make my corners. They turn to stones, dark and light stones in a scattered mosaic retreating backwards until their long lost premises turn inside out— le jour tomb. The day is like wide water, without sound. Here there is an ill, flat something like a house of twilight. Children’s shriekings filter and drain. 210 2 For Whom a square Room is a Fire I could say I am a ferry boat— a protracted wait that is also night. Round and round goes the bell of water. now I could scatter my body. either the white wave has receded or on the beaches— wishes of rose and ice an indigence of light. 3 Of soft, dizzying Light. O distinct pale, pale blue distance— you have taken the summer house, the hedge— do you remember how we used to gather? Were you trying to talk to me last night? You draw the black straw out of me. But you forget everything. ...